Jean-Marie Blas De Robles - Where Tigers Are at Home

There was not much left of this remarkable beauty. Up to the age of fifty Carlotta had managed, with creams and diets, to maintain a certain similarity to the image of her younger days — for her son, for his look of pride when he talked of the passions she aroused in his classmates. Then Mauro had left and his departure had coincided with evidence of the lack of consideration for her that her husband showed when away from home. To be honest, the photo published in Manchete had shocked her less by the actual content, as José wanted to believe, than by its revelation of a tragedy that had been played out well before that execrable scene. Carlotta had married Moreira da Rocha for love at a time when he was nothing more than a charming con man, shutting her eyes, against her parents’ advice, to his lack of culture, his thirst for money and power. Alone in the fazenda , her eyes fixed on the photo that made him look so ugly, she had realized that she no longer loved him, probably never had loved him. That was the hardest to take: thirty-five years together with a man she despised, a man whom, she now saw, she had always despised … because he prided himself on only reading the financial sections of the newspapers and, without having ever opened one of his books, called Marcel Proust a “dirty little queer.”

This obvious fact, revealed too late and magnified by bitterness, had become a torrent, sweeping away everything in its path, leaving its traces everywhere, even in Carlotta’s own reflection in the mirrors. Foundation creams and other artificial aids can never mask the body’s decrepitude: as long as love persists, in whatever form, they embellish, they protect a beauty that exists beyond the contingencies of old age. They are part of a game with strict rules, the game of affection in which one knows there is nothing to gain but the pleasure of being able to keep on playing it. For those such as savages and children, whose eyes have not yet been opened by skepticism, reality is unvarnished because their trust is limitless. Once they learn the extent of their credulity, the magic of the world is spoiled, it turns into illusion, that other word for the impossibility of belief. Carlotta was vaguely aware that no cosmetics could disguise the unsightliness brought about by the withdrawal of faith.

Her mind a blank, she ran her hands over her tired flesh, feeling her flabby muscles, rolling the layers of fat under her distended skin. Bizarre the way the body had of producing fat when not enough demands were made on it … As if it were noting down our least abdication of responsibility toward life in order, by way of compensation, to provide richer nourishment for those that will continue the cycle after its death. Benumbed by the Lexomil, a rather stupid smile spread across her face at this new idea: accelerate the process, stuff herself, drink more and more, not to “forget”—nothing nor anyone could soothe the pain of a failed life — but to put on weight, get fat, as a way of making one last offering to the forces of life. She got up and looked through her address book, then rang La Bohème, the best restaurant in São Luís.

“Good morning … This is Countess Carlotta de Alzegul, could you put me through to Isaac Martins, please …” Seeing the bottle of whiskey she hadn’t managed to finish the previous day, she stretched the telephone wire until she could reach it.

“Yes?… How are you, my dear Isaac?… Oh, I’m all right, even if it’s not much fun being a governor’s wife sometimes. But that’s precisely why I’m ringing: my husband is having a reception at the fazenda in a fortnight’s time and I was wondering if you would be willing to organize the food … About a hundred, perhaps more, you know how these things are, people imagine they’re obliged to bring a companion, quite often one who would have been better left at home … You’ll need to allow for a full meal, something pretty lavish: lobster, shellfish, roast meat … Stuffed crabs? Yes, why not?… Add to that anything that comes into your head, I leave it entirely up to you. Expense no object and you’ll make sure there’s plenty of everything, won’t you? We’ll have to think in terms of three or even four identical buffets, so hire all the extra help you think necessary, I don’t want any complaints about having to wait to be served … Could you come out to the fazenda tomorrow so we can get together to finalize the arrangements? Preferably in the morning … Perfect. See you tomorrow, Isaac … Goodbye.”

Carlotta hung up and drank her first mouthful of whiskey that day. It all looked pretty promising, José was right to continue to trust her in these matters; few women would be capable of organizing such an important social event and without the least show of panic. She wasn’t doing it for him, but for the honor of the Alzeguls, well aware that even if her husband had completely exempted her from the task, the least mistake would still be blamed on her and her alone. It was not unusual for José to organize this kind of party, especially at election time, but he usually held them at the governor’s palace, reserving the honors of the fazenda for a few privileged guests. Where the hell had the butler said he would leave the guest list?

Her glass of whiskey in her hand, Carlotta left her bedroom and headed for the study, where Moreira spent the better part of his evenings. She quickly found three typed sheets, clearly visible on a green leather blotter. As she sat down at the desk, in the “master’s” chair, she realized she hadn’t been in the room for years, out of fear of disturbing her husband when he shut himself away with his files and then out of lack of interest in his affairs. I won’t bore you with it, darling, it would take too long and you wouldn’t understand much anyway . Nothing had changed since she’d seen to the decoration of the room, apart from the addition of a huge map of the Alcântara peninsula in garish colors that clashed with the eighteenth-century engravings she’d had such difficulty tracking down all those years ago. As she drank, she scanned the guest list. Dr. Euclides da Cunha hadn’t been forgotten, fortunately … two ministers, one ambassador, a few worthies … Suddenly she came across a series of names indented, as if to emphasize their importance:

Yukihiro Kawaguchi

Susumu Kikuta

— Sugiyama Bank

Jason Wang Hsiao

— Everblue Corporation

Matthews Campbell Junior

Henry McDouglas

— Pentagon

Peter McMillan

William Jefferson

— Forban Guaranty Trust Co. of New York

Accustomed to her husband’s business relations, the only thing to strike Carlotta about this collection of unknown names was the mention of the Pentagon, but she felt a sort of irrational uneasiness. Having decided to ask her husband about it, she looked for a pen to annotate the list and as she opened the large drawer in the desk her eye was caught by the headings on a file:

INFORMATION MEMORANDUM

Alcântara International Resort

1. Project Description

1.1. Overview

1.2. Infrastructure

1.3. Marketing

2. Financial Plan

2.1. Structure

2.2. Term Sheet

3. Economic Analysis

3.1. Assumptions

3.2. Base Case

3.3. Conservative Case

4. Co-agents

4.1. Sugiyama Bank

4.2. Forban Limited

4.3. Countess C. de Alzegul

Astounded to see her name on such a document, Carlotta looked up the relevant section. For a few seconds indignation made her stomach churn: she was involved in this project as “owner” of all the pieces of land on the Alcântara peninsula that were listed for development!